


Home for the Holidays

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Airports, Blizzards & Snowstorms, M/M, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-25
Updated: 2005-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Given a choice, Crowley would have been </i>anywhere<i> except stuck in an airport three days before Christmas facing down the threat of a massive trans-Atlantic blizzard.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Home for the Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in December of 2005.

Given a choice, Crowley would have been _anywhere_ except stuck in an airport three days before Christmas facing down the threat of a massive trans-Atlantic blizzard.

Actually, that wasn't true. He had a choice, inasmuch as the relative lack of Communication gave him one, but he hadn't planned on getting himself _stranded_ , and certainly not in _Pittsburgh_. He had just gone because somebody had told him that the shops were excellent. You couldn't go wrong with thousands of harried travelers who were also potential harried shoppers. Worlds of possibilities. Besides, Aziraphale would appreciate his good humor, and the stupid holiday would go down that much easier.

Except that Crowley was staring out a frigid floor-to-ceiling glass window, not so much watching the snow come down as watching desperately for flecks of sky.

He took a sip of mocha and scowled. The mint was over the top, in his opinion, especially since the flight back to London that he had decided to take on a moment's notice appeared to be operating on an indefinite delay. He knew he'd gone wrong somewhere, suggesting airplanes. Those bloody Wrights.

Sure, it had been fun while it lasted. Crowley was sure he'd never seen such a spectacular queue jam-up at a Godiva kiosk before. Even once he'd congratulated himself, he didn't feel any better, and that's when he'd gone in search of Starbucks.

Crowley snapped his fingers irritably, and his cup vanished. Had the trash bin at the gate check-in been paying attention, it might have been surprised. The frazzled ticketing agent, who had just then been throwing out a failed scratch-off lottery ticket, certainly was, as he'd got a splash of mocha on his nose.

Indeed, his lot could get no worse. He could fly, of course, _really_ fly, but the last time he'd considered it in that kind of weather, he'd been drunk. And it hadn't gotten past the considering stage, because Aziraphale had been a few feathers shy of sober, and the angel could be terribly persuasive when things started looking kaleidoscopic.

Crowley noticed a hairline crack high in one corner of the window. 

It vanished. No use letting in the cold.

Try as he might to evict Aziraphale from his thoughts, it wasn't, as they say, happening. If Aziraphale had come along, at least he would have had somebody to share his misery. Also, a few lucky people might have actually gotten their blessed chocolate, and he wouldn't have had to waste a perfectly good mocha.

Crowley rubbed his forehead and wondered if he was coming down with something.

He tuned out the next announcement—there had been many, but none sounded relevant—and thought of Aziraphale's kitchen. There was no room in it to speak of, but one got used to bumping into one's opposite number at every turn, especially when said opposite number made the best cocoa in all of Soho, and possibly all of England.

One also got used to soft kisses suggesting one ought to go wait at the table.

Crowley opened his eyes. He'd begun rubbing his temples, bent over far enough to stare at the worn carpet. The announcement said something unpleasant about the flight to London, and something equally unpleasant about either a layover in New York or waiting till morning. While he was incapable of getting sick, he had the regrettable tendency to develop headaches, and this one was setting up camp for the night.

Crowley _had_ done worse things, he supposed. 

JFK was one of them.

* * *

"Sir?"

Crowley started awake, his elbow losing purchase on the arm rest.

"Er—what?"

There was a disturbingly small child kneeling in the seat next to him. It had his sunglasses.

"You dropped 'em," said the kid, brushing her fringe out of her eyes.

"Thanks," Crowley muttered, snatching the glasses away from her.

"You're welcome," she said, sticking one uncertain fingertip in her mouth.

Crowley looked away, but he made sure that the sleeping woman a few chairs down would wake with the impulse to buy her daughter something ridiculously expensive, possibly involving ten different shades of slime or a miniature baking oven.

* * *

Crowley could never remember what the Witching Hour was, but he'd once heard that it was 3:00 AM. With insomnia like this, he was inclined to believe it.

On the bright side, the snow appeared to have stopped.

In the chair beside him, the girl was curled up asleep. Her mother had moved over beside her. She was watching Crowley with weary, wary eyes, leaning heavily on one arm. Half smiling, Crowley offered her a little wave. Her eyes drifted instantly shut. He could practically _hear_ Aziraphale's murmured approval.

Crowley stopped up his ears and wished he'd thought to bring headphones.

* * *

Two hours later, Crowley stood and went up to the window.

It was as cold beneath his fingertips as it looked.

People were stirring again, but there wouldn't be flights leaving for at least another hour or so. Dawn was pale on the horizon, dusted with high, frozen clouds. He contemplated risking the atmosphere, then thought better of it. It was comfortable here. Warm. He could get tea if he wanted it.

Crowley drew nonsense on the frosted glass.

What he really wanted was to go home.

* * *

"Boarding pass, please."

Crowley fished in his jacket pocket, producing a printed slip. He tilted his head, looking into the uniformed gentleman's eyes.

"Thank you. Happy Holidays," said the attendant, waving Crowley along.

They were both of them just doing their jobs, after all.

* * *

As in-flight entertainment went, _Gilligan's Island_ reruns were far preferable to _It's a Wonderful Life_. He wouldn't have minded _Seinfeld_ , but it had gone out of fashion.

Crowley eventually slept, the _Attaché_ crossword half finished in his lap.

* * *

Heathrow wasn't just an eyesore; it was a sight for sore eyes.

Crowley hurried through the crowds without so much as a thought to trouble them. It was evening, and if he thought about it too hard, the lack of sleep would catch up with him, and he'd forget that jet lag was entirely unnecessary. He'd used it as an excuse in the past, but this time, he wasn't looking for excuses.

He needed the quickest route to Soho; it would have to involve a cab.

The lights passed in gleaming bars across Crowley's window. The driver attempted to make conversation, but a few answers from Crowley and he stopped, as those answers were brief, disinterested, and perhaps vaguely frightening. Crowley asked to be let off two blocks too early and didn't bother to tip.

When it came down to it, you had to cut corners.

There was a light on in the shop, but that wasn't unusual. It filtered through the doorway to the back room and leaped to meet Crowley at the front door as he shoved it open, caught up in the bell's golden, jangling glint. Crowley stepped on a few letters, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. If he soaked them badly enough, all the better. Aziraphale would be more likely to throw them out. As far as he was concerned, the angel had enough distractions.

Crowley found the table empty, save for a game of solitaire and an abandoned pipe. 

The kitchen, however, was not.

Aziraphale gave him a cautious sidelong glance, setting his spoon down in the sink.

"Dare I ask?"

"No," Crowley muttered, and crowded him in with a kiss.

Aziraphale collected himself when they drew apart, eyes inquisitive. 

"What was so urgent, I'd like to know," he ventured, "that you couldn't sleep it off before traipsing in looking such a fright?"

"This," Crowley said, and took the cup of cocoa from Aziraphale's hand.

It smelled of mint, which suited him just fine.


End file.
